Anyone Perfect Must Be Lying
by Goldenberry
Summary: This is a not-so-little romance story about a Rivendellian elf-maid who just happens to have a secret crush on Legolas, who she's convinced will never like her. When he comes to visit the river-city, she learns to expect the unexpected.
1. Part I: Night

The pillared room in Rivendell rang with pealing laughter. The five elven- maids sat about the walls, some on chairs, some on the bed; they all wore smiles upon their faces, except one.  
  
"And you, Cerise?" asked a tall, blonde girl. "Which warrior has caught your fancy?"  
  
"None, Nimuriel," answered the petite maid with hair as red as the setting sun outside, looking placid.  
  
"Come!" said Nimuriel in disbelief. "Are you sure? There are so many- Flamerin, Shoreles, Legolas..." Giggling broke out again as the speaker smiled mischievously. They all knew that her heart was set on the last, a statuesque, gentle elf-warrior with a deceptively quick arrow.  
  
"I'm sure," Cerise replied, becoming tight-lipped. She hated this game, in which the other girls would try to extract information from her and then tease her about it.  
  
Thankfully, Nimuriel's attentions turned to Crilurion, an infuriatingly superficial girl who changed her desire day to day. "So, who is it in this hour, Crilurion?"  
  
She blushed. "Well... although Celebel is strong, and kind, and handsome, he is away in the East... I believe that Legolas is worthy of my attentions as well." Crilurion smiled haughtily at Nimuriel, who smirked at her. "Yes, although I find it hard to believe that such an elf as he would ever consider a shallow doll- such as you, my friend -as a consort..."  
  
Crilurion's smile hardened. "And you are not, my fellow maid?"  
  
Cerise had had enough. She stood and pointed a finger at the squabbling girls. "If you even bothered to use those starry eyes of yours, you would notice that Legolas is returning tomorrow- with a Lady-elf from Lothlorien." Cerise loaded the last few words with meaning and then swept from the room.  
  
~*~  
  
As she fled down the ivory-wrought halls, Cerise thought back upon the object of their conversation. She had lied, of course; since late childhood her heart had been his. And that was exactly the problem... the majority of elves would consider her to still be in late childhood, at a mere thirty Earth-years of age. Elvenkind was immortal, and she would doubtlessly live for hundreds, even thousands of years to come. In the eyes of many, she was an inexperienced, clumsy child-elf, still learning the ways of the world.  
  
Cerise snorted. As if Legolas would ever even look at her a second time!  
  
~*~  
  
That evening, after she had eaten and retired to her quarters near the top of one of the city's winding towers, Cerise stood before her silver mirror and unbound her hair. Of the two things she had ever liked about herself- her hair and her hands, with their graceful length- this was the one that enjoyed the most compliment: it was waist-length and vermillion, shot through with gold and contrasting starkly against her pale skin. Others also said that her eyes were lovely as well: a deep and heady green, they shadowed her other features with their size. Cerise had always hated them, though, for their uniqueness. She had seen other elven-maidens with red hair (yes, they were rare, but she had sighted them all the same), but never with green eyes. And to add insult to this, she had not inherited height from her father (Erasan the Silent of Mirkwood; he'd been killed in battle when she was still a child, and she'd been sent to live here in Rivendell) and was the shortest of all her companions. Cerise always felt outcast from the group of elves her age in Rivendell, who were all tall, light or very dark-haired girls with blue and grey eyes.  
  
Feeling rather depressed now, Cerise lowered herself into the steaming bath that had been prepared for her, her hair splaying out where it touched the surface of the water.  
  
~*~  
  
Late into the night, Cerise was woken by a loud noise on the pathway outside of her tower, which doubled as a stable for guest horses. After attempting to return to sleep and finding it impossible with the steps and voices, she wrapped her nightdress around her and went out to the bridge. "Who is there?" she called to the shadowy figures moving about. As she came closer, Cerise recognized one of the elves' blond hair and engraved bow. "Legolas Greenleaf?" she guessed in a quieter voice.  
  
Legolas turned at the sound of an elven-maid's voice, asking who was there. He'd forgotten that the tower housed sleeping-quarters. As she walked into the light of his lantern, he saw the Lady Ceriselen Starflame, her bright hair loose about her shoulders. She said his name, but it was more of a question than a statement.  
  
"Yes, my Lady," he said, smiling benevolently at her. "It has been a long time."  
  
Cerise felt her breath catch in her throat, but managed to answer him. "Yes, it has," she said as she moved closer to him.  
  
"Why are you here?" he asked. She flushed as she remembered why she'd come out here in the first place. "I- I'm sorry, my Lord, but the- the noise..." Cerise gestured at the horses, who had now been tethered to the columns.  
  
"I apologize," Legolas said humbly. "We did not expect to arrive so late at night."  
  
"Oh, it's- it's all right," she stuttered.  
  
"I'm glad," he replied, then turned to the pale moon shining in the black sky. "It is late, but perhaps you would enjoy some of our woodland nectar. It will help you sleep."  
  
Cerise protested, although she longed to taste the ambrosia of her childhood, and turned to go. "It's all right, I'm fine."  
  
Legolas took hold of her arm, and pulled her back. "Please."  
  
She smiled at him, and it was a smile of pure idolization. "Yes, then."  
  
After Legolas had retrieved the capped horn from his horse's saddlebags, he handed it to Cerise and suggested that they walk the loop that the city was built in, returning to her tower. She agreed rather dazedly. I must be dreaming, Cerise thought. The most desired soldier in the entire elven army is offering to take me for a walk at night...  
  
As they went down a hill that merged into a path that wove over a small, rocky brook, Legolas made small talk. "So, how are the other maidens?" She knew he meant Nimuriel, who had made an incredible fool of herself in front of him during his last visit at one of the Summer Festivals.  
  
"They're fine," Cerise answered. "Nimuriel and Crilurion are madly in love with you."  
  
Legolas looked amused. "Are they really?" he asked. "Do they know of the Lady Simulien who has accompanied me?"  
  
"Oh, they do now... I interrupted while they were mooning."  
  
She felt his arm tense against hers. "So you knew as well?"  
  
Cerise flushed again. "Well, er- I didn't really mean to overhear, but the Lord Elrond was speaking right outside my door, and-"  
  
Legolas stopped walking and turned her to face him, placing a long finger against her lips. "I'm not angry, Lady Starflame," he assured the girl, bending over her easily.  
  
You know everything that I'm afraid of  
  
You do everything I wish I did  
  
Everybody wants you  
  
Everybody loves you  
  
Cerise merely stared up at him, feeling her entire body go cold with shock at the touch of his hand on her face. After a tension-filled moment, she broke away and continued walking. In a high-pitched voice, she asked, "How are things in Mirkwood?"  
  
He quickly caught up with her. "They're fine. My father is the king now."  
  
"I know." It was almost a whisper.  
  
Legolas heard, but didn't acknowledge it. "And that makes me the prince, so naturally he wants me to find a companion as soon as possible. Lady Simulien is his suggestion."  
  
By now they were climbing the slope back up into the towers again. "Do you agree with your father? About Lady Simulien, I mean?"  
  
Legolas looked sideways at Cerise, who stared stubbornly forward. "Yes and no," he answered. "She would be an ally with the woods of Lothlorien, and yet I would feel more comfortable with someone of my own kind."  
  
Cerise almost visibly flinched at this reference to her. Her father- Erasan- had been one of Theoden's closest friends and confidants. "Someone like Nimuriel? She grew up in Mirkwood as well."  
  
"No."  
  
Legolas had no need to say anything more; the single word, laden heavily with hidden meaning, was enough.  
  
Cerise ran ahead, not stopping until she was in her tower, in her room, leaving Legolas far behind her.  
  
~*~  
  
When she woke that morning, Cerise spent a very unusually long time in front of her mirror, caking on the makeup that her friends wore to make themselves look even more beautiful. She brushed her hair with one hundred strokes on each side, making sure it shimmered (she was sure it would be dazzling in the sunlight) and braided her long, face-framing pieces back into a crown. She wrapped the braids around her head three times and pinned them at the front with a jewel that had been a gift from Elrond (he'd told her it matched her eyes). Cerise even wore one of her best day-gowns, a pale gold one with a gathered bodice.  
  
As she entered the dining hall, the chatter fell silent as every pair of eyes turned upon her. No one could remember having seen the Lady look so beautiful before; the light of her hair reflected in the carefully placed ceiling (an open dome walled with mirrors) outshone even that of the aura of Elrond. Cerise saw Nimuriel, Crilurion, Teminele, and Medeasel gaping at her from one end of the table, and as she sat Cerise could feel Legolas' eyes upon her, boring into her from behind.  
  
Elrond stood, holding up a hand. "Today we are honored with two revered visitors," he said, smiling benevolently at a point somewhere beyond Cerise. "Let us welcome the Prince of Mirkwood, Legolas Greenleaf, and his companion the Lady Simulien of Lothlorien!"  
  
Cerise turned slowly to see them stand. Legolas was smiling, but she could see from the shadows under his eyes that he had not slept. And beside him was a tall Elven-woman, her ink-like hair flowing to the center of her back. *Of course, that's Simulien,* thought Cerise, suddenly not feeling pretty at all. *She's exactly the way an elven Lady should be, with her blue eyes and her height and her age. She's probably as old as Legolas, if not older.*  
  
"...and we thank you, Lord Elrond, for your hospitality," Legolas was saying.  
  
Elrond gestured for them to sit, and the meal was served.  
  
Sometime after Cerise had finished eating, Teminele tapped her on the shoulder and handed her a piece of parchment. "Legolas said this was for you," she informed her giddily, trying to keep a straight face.  
  
Cerise didn't even bother to thank her, but stood and went quietly from the room. No one noticed.  
  
  
  
Later, when she had found a place of solitude- by one of Rivendell's ancient fountains set deep in the woods- Cerise pulled out the parchment. She could rip it up and set it adrift in the fountain, letting the ink bleed away until it was unreadable, or she could read it herself.  
  
Inhaling shakily, she unfolded the paper, recognizing the slanting script that she had seen on so many notes and letters to her father when she was a child.  
  
My Lady Ceriselen,  
  
I did not intend to harm or frighten you last night, and I hope that I have not caused irrevocable damage to our friendship. Unfortunately, though, I am afraid you have retained my horn of Mirkwood ambrosia. If it is possible, could we meet on the main bridge over the River this afternoon so you might have an opportunity to return it to me? I highly doubt that, although your anticipatory skills are great, you have brought it with you to breakfast.  
  
~ Legolas  
  
Cerise sighed through her nose. He hadn't even signed his last name, as if that was any proper way to end a letter to a Lady!  
  
Legolas...  
  
And how stupid had she been to not even give him back his nectar? It was probably still in her room, collecting dust on the floor. What could someone who had never known her that well know of her anticipatory skills? *Nothing about me is great,* she thought as she let the parchment drop into the water of the fountain, and rested her head on its marble side.  
  
  
  
Legolas had been waiting at the bridge for over an hour, and the sun was now beginning to drop below the horizon. *Where is she?* he thought, and although he had never been known to get angry at something not evil, he felt tension rising in his chest.  
  
A young elf-maiden, whose pale hair went only to her shoulders, passed him. "Nimuriel," he cried, stopping her. She turned to him, looking very expectant. "Yes?"  
  
"Have you seen Cerise? She was supposed to meet me here some time ago."  
  
Nimuriel looked exasperated. "I think she went into the woods after breakfast."  
  
*Oh, wonderful. The woods... unprotected... and now it's getting dark...* Legolas thanked her briefly and dashed off to the path that wove into the trees.  
  
He found her sleeping against one of the old fountains, showing no sign of waking anytime soon. Bending down, Legolas lifted her into his arms, her silken red hair flowing over his hands. She was surprisingly lightweight; moaning softly in protest of being moved, Cerise rested her head against his shoulder and involuntarily wrapped her arms around his neck.  
  
  
  
It was not until he arrived back at the main bridge that he realized how strange he must look, carrying a young elf-maiden- not even a fourth his age- in his arms at twilight. And unfortunately, the last person he wanted to see while he was in this position stepped out of the shadows of the bridge: Elrond.  
  
"Legolas Greenleaf," he said, gazing amusedly at the younger elf. "May I ask why you are carrying the Lady Starflame?"  
  
"She was asleep by one of the old fountains in the forest," Legolas answered. "With what is gathering in the East now, I thought it dangerous for her to be alone and unprotected."  
  
Elrond raised an eyebrow. "How can you be so sure she is unprotected?" he asked, delving into the pocket of the cloak Cerise wore and swiftly producing an incredibly sharp elven-knife, studded with bright golden jewels at the hilt.  
  
"My lord, what use would even such a wondrous knife as this be to her, were she asleep?"  
  
Elrond half-smiled. "True, my good prince," he allowed. "Yet I would still ask you: why not wake her and then let her walk on her own?"  
  
"I did not want to," Legolas admitted ruefully. "She seemed content as she was."  
  
~*~  
  
A/N: Okay, I know this chapter is sort of short, but I wanted to get this idea out! It's just meaningless fluff, so don't feel like you have to review, but if you wish to be kind and giving go ahead! Also, the lyrics in the middle (there will be more in the upcoming chapters, don't worry) are from Mandy Moore's song 'Crush.'  
  
--also, Cerise's name doesn't actually mean 'Starflame' in Elvish. In fact, I wrote this story before I could semi-write and speak it, so most of the names will be total gibberish when translated. Elen, though, which is on the end of Ceriselen, means 'star.'  
  
Disclaimer: All the characters except Legolas and Elrond are mine (Cerise, Nimuriel, Teminele, Crilurion, and Medeasel), and the former belong to the late J.R.R. Tolkien (author of the series this is a fic of) and all the various companies that were involved in the making of the movie. 


	2. Part II: Dawn

__

Anyone Perfect Must Be Lying

Part II: Dawn

Cerise felt the cold of the night wind on her back and shivered before she opened her eyes. She was wrapped in weightless velvet to her waist and lying on a bed. Beside someone else.

Inhaling with a start, her eyes widened and saw a man's chest. He was still clothed, and she was wearing the golden silk gown she'd had on at breakfast the day before? Her hair fell across her torso, a curtain of red waves, and she found strands of aureate flax on her cheek. The smell of winter woods the soft, even breaths the hair. "_Legolas_," she whispered, and felt his arm curl around her.

Oh, Nimuriel would absolutely _die_! 

~*~

Legolas knew he shouldn't have brought Cerise here, but she was so cold. And fit so perfectly into his arms, her crimson veil so smooth and refreshing against his hands, eyes closed and mouth parted in idyllic sleep

So he'd lain her beneath the blankets in the guest-tower Elrond had welcomed him into, two floors above Simulien's dwelling. Enough, certainly, to prevent any knowledge of Cerise's presence. She'd settled drowsily into the pillow he normally slept on, and he'd crawled in beside her. Sleep eluded him for the longest time, and his eyes roved in wonder over her unknowing, picturesque expression. Her pale skin curved in flawless patterns against the wavy blood of her hair Legolas had even reached out to trace his fingers across her cheek once, but drew back. _She's so young_, he'd warned himself.

__

Old enough, he'd tried.

__

It's wrong.

__

How can it be wrong? We both want it.

You don't know that.

And he'd been overtaken by slumber, into restless dreams of timeless stars against red flames of sunset.

But now she was awake; he didn't open his eyes, but he'd felt her shiver, heard her murmur his name into his chest. Almost involuntarily, he wrapped his arm around her, against the cold from the window behind them.

"Legolas?"

He opened one eye comically. "I'm _asleep_."

Her cheeks were extremely flushed with anxiety. "In the same bed as I am."

"How observant of you." His arm was still around her.

She bit her lip and looked down. "So, er, how did I get here?"

Legolas used his other arm to prop himself up. "Well, first, I found you sleeping quite peacefully by one of the old fountains in the forest. And" How was he supposed to explain to her that he hadn't wanted to leave her? He realized now exactly how inane that sounded.

"And you brought me to your bed, Legolas?" Cerise's entire face was flaming scarlet.

He took a deep breath, and then the plunge. "Do you have a problem with that, Lady Starflame?"

"No," she whispered, under her breath.

Legolas blanched. This, he'd never expected. A giggle, then her flight from the room, and rumors of his perversity abounding next morning at breakfast, perhaps. But Cerise had always struck him as much more mature than her peers. He should have known she'd be honest with him.

So, honestly, she didn't have a problem with being beside him in bed?

Legolas felt his own blush start to creep heatedly onto his face. He'd lived three thousand years in Middle Earth, and never once had he fallen in love.

Cerise's breath was inhibited and shaky, and she inclined her head away from his searching gaze. "Er. Do you?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"No," he said quickly and hoarsely. His arm tightened around her.

Then she looked up, and saw in his beautiful dark eyes the answers to every question she'd ever asked of the world beyond and life on earth. So many thoughts and answers, like black ink on a globe of chocolate, and in them stood out one, so close and affirmative that it hurt to read. 

_Yes._

He must have seen it in her as well, and the long, ivory fingers that had been so fearfully still sprung into motion, running themselves frantically down her spine, searching for the fastenings of her gown. Cerise bit her lip harder, almost drawing blood, and clumsily, nervously worked open the buckle of his quiver _Isn't that odd, he wore it to bed,_ some calm part of her mind said cheerfully. She pushed it away; his warm, soft hands were sliding her gown down her arms, and she exhaled, looking upward to the gold-inlaid ceiling.

Legolas pulled his own tunic off quickly, over his head, and it lay forgotten behind him atop Cerise's gown. Which meant he let himself gape at her naked body, now tinged with pink embarrassment. _She's never been with _anyone_ before_, he realized, and was hit with the absolute weight of what he was about to do. 

Cerise recognized the look of inhibition clouding Legolas' eyes. _Please_, she begged inwardly. _We were so close_

_At least start off properly_, he compromised, and bent forward to kiss her, pressing his chest against her cool skin. 

_Oh._ Cerise's lips caught fire as he joined his to them. His other arm snaked around her, collapsing him to her level on the pillow, and Cerise thrilled in pure revelation at the passion of his embrace. She never, in a thousand ages, thought this could possibly happen to her. The homely elf, a freak show of an oxymoron. Nimuriel, Medeasel, maybe, but not her. No, not her

~*~

Cerise stretched and yawned, catlike, as she woke. _Still in Legolas' bed_, she thought triumphantly. Then, proudly,_ and still naked_.

But he wasn't there.

_Perhaps breakfast came and he didn't want to wake me, _she rationalized. No; she could see from the sun's early position in the sky that breakfast would not be served for another hour.

Sitting up, she fumbled for her gown and resorted to simply tying the blanket about her in a sort of cloak. A piece of parchment, the ink still shining wet, lay on the mattress beside her. Cerise snatched it quickly, scanning its contents before moving to the window to read it in the rosy light. 

_Lady Ceriselen-_

How I have the courage to write these words, I do not know. How I have the audacity to even think of you in such a way as I do now, I cannot tell. I will not even breach the subject of how my skin heats in abashment at the thought of with what disregard I ravished you this past night. I cannot erase the harm I have done to you, and your reputation. All I can hope for is your forgiveness, in some part.

I regret also to tell you that I have been called to arms. Darkness is falling in the South; Mordor is strengthening with every passing hour, and four soldiers with an mission of crucial import have come to Rivendell. I have been assigned to accompany them on their journey. No one can tell how long I will be gone, nor if I will indeed return at all.

And so, in what may be my last contact with you, I ask you but two favors:

Forgive me.

Wait for me.

It wasn't signed.

~*~

Cerise forwent breakfast and instead made the considerable journey to the opposite end of the city, where lay the Courtyard of the Stars. Here the Elvish astronomers spent their days studying the constellations above, the last wonder of Middle-Earth, and the answer to the elves' perpetual questions of their faith.

Here also lived the princess Arwen, and her entourage of maidens. Cerise normally avoided them; Arwen made her feel horribly inadequate, with her sheet of ebony hair and piercing cobalt eyes. Besides, she felt she could no longer show her face to any of the maidens' of the court. For- she blushed at this- she certainly wasn't one.

The Courtyard was composed of open walls, merely structures of stone with no centers to them, and a trickling, quiet fountain in the corner. Engraved on its domed ceiling were a thousand tiny, painstakingly detailed drawings of the heavens. Its view was that of the entire city, rushing waterfalls close enough to reach out and touch. A figure robed in violet, her dark hair combed back, was leaning wistfully against the walls to the east.

Cerise saw it was the princess; her renowned features of porcelain beauty were contorted in such grief that she felt a pang of sincere sympathy, and was overcome with curiosity at what had made the perfect Arwen so upset.

"My lady?" she began softly. Arwen's head shot up, and she smiled sadly and wiped at the corner of one ice-blue eye. "Are you all right?"

"Well, no," the princess said quietly. "In fact, I am very much the opposite of all right.'"

Cerise arranged herself on the rim of the fountain next to her; Arwen took the proffered seat and crossed her ankles habitually. "What's wrong?"

"Aragorn is gone," she said simply, and resumed her longing gaze to the east.

Cerise nodded. Arwen and Estel's affair was common knowledge in Rivendell. But he was gone? He'd only just arrived- _oh_. "So he went with the company, then," she hypothesized.

"Yes," the princess affirmed. Another tear pooled in the lower lid of her eye. But she shook it off, and tactfully changed the subject. "You look rather grieved also, Lady Starflame. May I ask what such a young girl is so concerned with?" Cerise sighed and was silent. Arwen merely looked at her. "Love, then?"

Cerise smiled shyly at her. She'd never really had a friend in any of the other elf-maidens at Rivendell, but she _liked_ the princess. Arwen was so kind and open and serious, just the way Cerise had always wanted to be. 

"I see," Arwen said with a hint of confusion. "Why are you so forlorn, then? Does he not dwell in the city?"

"Briefly," Cerise said shakily. What could she tell the princess? "He visited. But now he has departed."

Arwen paused, searching Cerise's face for answers. "With the company?"

Cerise nodded almost imperceptibly. Hot tears stung her eyes, and she turned away, ashamed that the princess would see her crying over something so frivolous.

"Legolas," she pronounced, and Cerise inhaled sharply. "Or Gimli?" A smile tugged at her lips.

"Who?" Cerise managed.

Arwen produced a handkerchief and handed it to her. "Gimli, son of Gloin, of the race of dwarves," she informed her. "He was the other who accompanied the Halflings."

"So there are seven," Cerise said after a moment. 

Arwen's eyes took on that faraway look again. "Nine," she whispered. "Boromir of the South and the race of Men came also. And, with a tale of heavy import followed Mithrandir. They left at sunrise."

Cerise followed Arwen's distant gaze to the East Road that wound into the blue horizon. "Why?"

The princess fixed her eyes on Cerise with a stern force she'd never seen before. "Why? The fate of Middle Earth rests on the shoulders of four children, and you ask why?" Arwen laughed softly. "One of the Halflings carries a token of Sauron's power that the forces of darkness must never obtain. Alone, they would never last even to Rhovanion; Estel joined them at Bree, and Elrond called a bodyguard of Gimli and Legolas to him. Boromir of the South came on a different subject entirely, but saw the importance of the Halflings' mission and pledged loyalty to them."

Cerise closed her eyes. Had the Lady Simulien' been a sort of encoded language for the mission of the Halflings? Legolas' words echoed back to her _Do they know about the Lady Simulien?'_ She hadn't known. She bit her lip again; why hadn't he told her, why but she was so happy that he'd done it anyway, left her with some assurance of his love.

Legolas' love. The words left a warm sensation of content high in her chest.

Arwen changed subjects again. "Do you have some evidence of Legolas' love for you? Or do you simply long for it?"

Cerise flushed in indignation, and she reached into the pocket of her green velvet robe for the letter he'd written her. The amount of trust she had for Arwen was overwhelming, considering she'd only even spoken to her for the first time in the past ten minutes, but she thrust the paper into the princess' lap without hesitation.

Arwen slowly unfolded the parchment, her intense blue eyes roving over its words without showing any reaction to them. "Ah," she said simply, and looked up. "He ravished you?"

"No!" Cerise gasped, reaching for the letter. "Never. I I do not know what makes him so regretful. I am not."

Arwen almost smirked. "Have you thought about the consequences of this?"

"Consequences oh," Cerise said in understanding. "No, not yet" Consequences? Having Legolas' child would be a _consequence_? No, a blessing, a miracle with soulful brown eyes and blonde hair and perfect lips.

"I know what you're thinking," Arwen said softly. "I've often had the same thoughts. A reminder of Aragorn, to stay with me when he is at war but think of the pain of childbirth, the grief that comes with raising a son or daughter alone. For what if he does not return, Lady Starflame? What if he dies and burns, faraway in the dark wastes of the south?"

"_No!"_ Cerise shrieked, ripping her hand away from Arwen's.   
"No, he won't die, he can't die. He's supposed to come _back_."

Arwen sighed and regarded the younger girl, her heart so devastated by overwhelming love. "Come with me," she said finally, taking the sobbing elf's hand once more and leading her from the courtyard.

~*~

Legolas nudged his horse solemnly along the familiar track east from Rivendell. Of course, the Nine would not take it all the way to Mirkwood, but his horse knew the road so well that he would be leagues ahead of the rest of the company, had he not been assigned to stay close today. Aragorn and Boromir had ridden ahead and behind, scouting for trouble. 

Beside him, the stout, bearded Gimli coughed and shared a look with the hobbits. "Legolas," the dwarf began in a very businesslike manner. Legolas looked down at him, eyebrow raised. "Yes, Gimli son of Gloin?"

Pippin darted around Gimli and cleared his throat. "Er, we were just, er, wondering if you had any relationships you'd left behind? Sam n I were just talking about Rose, n Gimli here says e sorely misses is wife Freiija."

Legolas laughed. "I'm not married, if that's what you're asking."

Merry nudged Pippin with an elbow and winked at Legolas quite bravely. "'E's not married! Start your engines, girls!"

Legolas gave the hobbit a fierce glare and Merry shut up immediately. Gimli, however, was less easily intimidated. "Well, marriage is one thing, attachment is another, right, Samwise?" Sam gave the dwarf a hesitant smile, then saw Legolas' glare and quickly looked away.

"Very true," Legolas conceded. "Well, I suppose I am attached, if that's what you'd call it." He thought of Cerise winding herself urgently about him, her kisses so hot they'd melt mithril, and blushed despite himself.

Merry grinned at him in a very familiar manner, and Legolas resumed his glaring.

~*~

fini part II

~*~

A/N: Yay! I saw _The Two Towers_ and got all inspired, so, finally, about a year later, here's the second installment of _APMBL._ I hope it's going somewhere now I have the next couple of chapters pretty planned out, but suggestions are always welcome. By the way, I know there are some inconstancies with how the Fellowship departs from Rivendell, but let it go, okay? It's about romance, not absolute finite loyalty to canon.

~~goldenberry


	3. Part III: Mourning

__

Anyone Perfect Must Be Lying

Part III: Mourning

Arwen reached into the broad, colorful array of various concoctions encased in the mirrored cabinet mounted opposite the princess' bed, reflecting the view from the window above its canopied posts. She withdrew a small glass vial of violently blue liquid and uncorked it, then took a delicate sniff before handing it unceremoniously to Cerise. "Drink it _now_," she ordered as she locked the cabinet again and the keys vanished within the folds of her lavender gown.

Cerise looked at the potion with undisguised distaste. It smelt of blood and other bodily secretions, and made her want to find a quiet basin and throw up in it. 

"_Now,_" Arwen commanded, and watched Cerise as she hesitantly popped the cork and raised the vial to her lips, then, after a moment's consideration, closed her eyes resolvedly and swallowed.

"You won't have to worry now," Arwen said briefly, and as she discarded the vial, Cerise glimpsed the black-inked label: _Contraceptive._ She seethed inwardly and turned away. 

Arwen settled on the cushioned windowsill above her bed and motioned for Cerise to sit beside her. "We are alike, you and I," the princess remarked. "Each of us waits, without assurance as to their safety or even life at all, for our loves to return from the battle we cannot fight. I a princess, you a lady" she trailed off, her eyes lighting with some other thought. "You are the daughter of Lord Erasan of Mirkwood son of Narceleb, are you not?"

Cerise nodded silently.

Arwen clapped her hands in almost childish glee. "Why, then, you and Legolas are perfectly matched! A marriage between the two houses of Mirkwood would be most fortunate yes, most fortunate indeed"

"I- I cannot," Cerise whispered finally, avoiding Arwen's gaze. "He does not want me."

Arwen frowned. "I have known Legolas for many more years than you have been alive, Lady Starflame, and I know that he would not trespass the boundaries of Elven conduct in such a way for someone he did not love."

"But he does not," Cerise said desperately. "The letter"

"I imagine that Legolas was overcome by guilt and a fair amount of confusion upon waking," Arwen advised. "Without your assurance that you felt no ill will towards him, nor embarrassment, he was filled with doubt of your love. For it is a very rare thing that an elf-maiden as young as you are would be as mature as you have shown yourself to be in a situation like this."

Cerise looked down at her feet and gave a shuddering sigh. "It does not matter now," she said resolutely. "He is gone from here and will not return."

Arwen's eyes clouded with regret. "Do not say that, I was I was wrong. Legolas' will is strong. He shall return."

"You cannot prove that," Cerise challenged.

Arwen was silent. Cerise stared at her, trying to assess what she was feeling, for a long moment, before turning and half-running, half-flying down the stairs.

~*~

Legolas slept fitfully. The Halflings had insisted on making camp just after sundown, far too early for his tastes, and after the men shared with them a meal of some recently captured game, they tucked themselves in and fell into peaceful slumber. He, relegated to hobbit-guard duty, lay awake against a nearby oak for several hours as Gimli slept. Even when the dwarf exchanged watches with him, he sat against the tree, watching the dying embers of the fire until his eyelids closed of their own accord, leaving him to restless swatches of dreams infused with darkness.

Mainly he saw empty, void blackness, but once he saw two heads bent together in conversation- one luminous red, the other a familiar black- and the former turned toward him, and Cerise's pale, innocent face gazed accusingly at him. The dream-elf's lips were not moving, but he heard her voice, clear and echoing in his mind:

"_Why did you leave me, Legolas? and you brought me to your bed please, Legolas, please, oh Elbereth, Iluvatar!"_

"I'm sorry," he tried to tell her, reaching out for her as she slowly turned back towards Arwen. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to, I cannot- forgive me, Cerise! Please, wait-"

But she was gone, racing away down the stairwell, her hair a red flag of anger against the now-darkness of his dreamworld and her eyes flashing dark and sad emerald against its brightness. "_He is gone from here and will not return,"_ he heard her say tonelessly. "_He does not want me."_

"I do!" Legolas cried with unusual emotion as she faded into shadow. "Don't leave me, Ceriselen, wait for me" He was pleading confusedly at nothing now, glimpses and traces of things from long ago, fleeting too quickly to register. "Wait for me"

"No one's going anywhere, elf," Gimli said gruffly from his position across the camp. 

Legolas looked up at him and was glad it was dark. "Never mind, I had a dream."

Gimli only raised one bushy eyebrow before returning his watch to the hobbits.

~*~

Cerise scowled into her supper and heard Nimuriel and Crilurion titter girlishly across the table from her. She glared angrily at them, silencing their giggles, but Nimuriel spoke instead.

"What has angered Lady Ceriselen so?" the blonde elf said mockingly, in a question to her companion. Crilurion smiled insincerely beside her. "Perhaps it's because Legolas left."

Cerise's head shot up. "Why do you care about that?" She felt suddenly superior to these inane, mindless girls, fantasizing about bypassing looks and conversation when she knew there was more so much more. And she had it, something she was almost sure Nimuriel and Crilurion could never hope to have.

Nimuriel's blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "_I'm _going to marry him. Why do _you_ care so much?"

Cerise almost snorted her soup through her nose. "You're- you're going to marry him, are you?" she gasped through bouts of laughter. 

Nimuriel shared a look with Crilurion. "What is so funny?" she snapped.

"You- you're delusional," Cerise stated as her laughing slowed.

"Am I, now?" Nimuriel said slowly, her lips curling cruelly. "And you have a better chance of marriage to Legolas, I suppose?" She paused, sweeping over Cerise's unbrushed hair and rumpled robe. "You, the foulest excuse for an elf to ever walk the streets of Rivendell?"

Cerise's fists clenched. "Shut _up_, Nimuriel," she hissed under her breath, acutely aware of Elrond's watching gaze.

"Oh, I don't think so," Nimuriel said loudly, ignoring Cerise's warning. "I think I think that you have an attitude problem that only a stinking orphan would have! You think you're better than everyone else and you deserve more than your station permits. And you think that Legolas would _jump_ at the chance to marry you, a peasant three thousand years his junior. Well, continue dreaming, little Mirkwood outcast, because no one-"

"LADY NIMURIEL!" 

Nimuriel's golden head turned carefully to her right. The Lord of Rivendell was standing, and his blazing, accusatory eyes were fixed on her. Though he did not shout, his voice rang clear and lucid through the hall; all conversation stopped. "I believe it is time," he said, "for you to leave."

Nimuriel stared at him in disbelief. "No, Lord Elrond, you- you cannot mean"

"But I do," Elrond said simply. "Gather your possessions, and be ready to depart at dawn."

Nimuriel's mouth worked soundlessly. When she did speak, it was merely shreds of whimpering protest. "No Lord- Lord Elrond no I- I do not please"

"_Go,_" Elrond commanded, reminding Cerise strongly of his daughter. At that moment her stomach convulsed and she bent over, cradling her abdomen.

"Are you all right?" whispered Medeasel from her side.

"I- I'm fine," Cerise managed, but a searing pain, as though she'd just swallowed a hot iron, shot through her innards and she cried out.

Elrond's all-seeing eyes shot from the silently weeping Nimuriel to the curled-up maiden on the floor. Arwen stood as well, and she knew the cause: the contraception potion had reacted negatively on Cerise because she did not want to rid herself of the child. Rushing to the girl's side, she pulled her away from the crowd and into the washroom at the side of the dining hall. Cerise willingly bent over the wash-basin and immediately retched. Arwen turned obediently away as the younger elf coughed and sat back; the pain would be receding now, and Arwen quickly fashioned a cold compress by running water over a cloth and patting Cerise's forehead with it.

Cerise looked up at her tiredly as some color began to return to her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she whispered to Arwen. "I- I don't know what came over me"

"You must give up the child," Arwen told her. "It is not your decision to make, Lady Starflame. You cannot raise a son or daughter on your own, and you would be an outcast in Rivendell were you to bring forth offspring without marriage to its father."

Cerise hiccuped and looked down at her flat, featureless stomach. "So I am with child, then?"

Arwen just looked at her, then brought from her robes a second bottle of liquid, this one writhing and bubbling in red discord. "Smell this," she said, handing the open vial to Cerise. It was viler than the previous one, and after inhaling its foul scent, Cerise turned and retched again. "Do you want to drink that?"

Cerise stared at the bottle in disgust. "No!"

"Then give up the child," Arwen said quietly, her hand outstretched. "For you will have to drink this many times in the months to come; Elven pregnancy is a rare and oftentimes horrible thing, and I would not wish it upon an elf who has lived for three Ages, much less a maiden like yourself. You will suffer madness and psychological disease unlike any other for sixteen months, and then spend several days in actual childbirth." She paused, taking in Cerise's ashen face. "Legolas would never wish for you to experience such pain. Nor would my father, or any of the other elves of Rivendell. Do not choose that path."

Cerise waited, her eyes filling with tears of confusion and indecision, then bent her head and nodded. Arwen stayed for a long moment, pitying the girl who was too young to understand the game being played around her.

~*~

Winter had fallen in Rivendell.

The autumn of the Elves had come and gone, and the time was approaching in which they would pass away to Westernesse, leaving the world of Men to its own devices. The haggard trees, which in Cerise's youth had already been burdened with golden leaves, were stark and bare; the ground was blanketed in cold, harsh snow, and the leaden clouds blocked the sun from view. Lanterns were lit now through the day, and ice frosted the eaves of the city; the ponds that Cerise had splashed in as a little child were freezing over.

The fire in Cerise's room was of little comfort, its licking flames spewing fumes through the small tower and heating it unevenly. Branches tapped against the color-stained glass of the windows, and the wind whistled eerily outside. Cerise herself simply gazed, unseeing, into the fire. The pain and confusion she'd had earlier were gone; she sat alone as the dead of winter overtook the Elven city she had lived out her years in. Nimuriel had vanished in the night, with her sister Crilurion, and no news had come of the Fellowship that Legolas and Aragorn had joined. January it now was, in the reckoning of Gondor; too dark were the skies and too pale the ground for Cerise's liking. 

~*~

Across the mountains, surrounded by companions but also alone, Legolas walked silent through the mines of Moria. The crumbling, stone path illuminated faintly by the light of Mithrandir's staff was no comfort; his skilled eyes saw naught but dark, deep oceans of shadow flowing into the furthest reaches of these Dwarven caverns. He heard the distant screeches of Sauron's goblins, yet he did not alert the others, for these orcs were not near, and would not attack them. He could hear in their unalarmed voices that the Nine Walkers had gone unnoticed.

These days, Gimli Gloin's son and Aragorn son of Arathorn often glanced at him when they did not think he was looking, their eyes filled with a sort of searching concern. It was evident to Legolas' companions that their Elven friend was troubled, but both knew that elves do not idly tell their thoughts to others. And so they did not ask this of him, but instead watched him from afar, whispering beneath their breath and shaking their heads. 

While the men and dwarves of the company were careful enough to not bother the tormented elf, the strange, childlike Halflings were much more open with their thoughts. Meriadoc and Peregrin had impressed him with their audacity earlier in the journey, but now, as they camped in the city of Dwarrowdelf and Legolas sat whiling away the dark hours in which the others slept, Frodo the Ringbearer approached him carefully.

Legolas was propped up against a nearby column, and a pad of paper Mithrandir had procured for Peregrin rested against his knees. The charcoal pencil scratched efficiently over the parchment, in curving, elongated strokes, and the elf's mouth was twisted in concentration as he considered his work. 

"Who is she?" the Ringbearer breathed, cobalt eyes wandering over the Elven girl's long, shining hair and her quietly intelligent eyes, her soft-looking, elegant hands and the high swell of breasts beneath her gown. The only Elf-woman he'd ever seen up close was the Princess Arwen, but even she could not compare to the almost imagined beauty of this girl.

Legolas turned to the dark Halfling, forgoing questions as to why he was awake and instead answering. "Her name is Starflame," he said at last, pencilling in the long folds of her form-fitting robes.

"That's a lovely name," Frodo remarked, settling in beside the elf.

"It is," Legolas said in agreement, a half-smile quirking his lips. 

With no mark of abashment, the Halfling whispered, "Is she really that beautiful?"

Legolas smiled fully for the first time in days at the small creature's impressed wonder. "To my eyes, yes."

Frodo seemed to accept this and was content to merely watch him work, adding the symmetrical architecture of Rivendell behind her and a glint of endearing curiosity to her eyes. "Are you going to marry her?"

Legolas did not look up. "Ringbearers need their sleep," he said finally, pocketing the pencil and standing. "And you are no exception."

~*~

"You must eat, Cerise," Medeasel pleaded from the doorway. "I do not know what troubles you, but starving yourself will not help matters."

Cerise's eyes shot from the fire to the maiden in the hall. "What day is it?"

Medeasel was a little taken back by Cerise's sudden response. "Er the seventeenth of February, I think."

Cerise nodded. Medeasel took this as a sign of affirmation and advanced toward her with the wooden tray of fruit and breads, setting it tentatively on the bed beside the other girl.

Suddenly Cerise stood and began searching in the nearby wardrobe, pulling out a long, grey cloak built for travel and a polished, locked case. Clasping the cloak about her shoulders, she hefted the case and grabbed an apple from the tray before pushing past Medeasel and out the door.

"Wait!" Medeasel cried. "Where are you going?"

"To see for myself."

"See what?" Medeasel asked, running after her. "Stop! Come back!"

The door slammed shut.

Cerise was planning to go to the stables, but stopped short on the bridge outside her room as she spotted Legolas' horse. The Fellowship had departed on foot; Naharendil stood proud and bright, tethered to the column beside him, and gazed at her expectantly. She stopped, however, before mounting him, and set her case down on the stone floor. Inside its velvet cushions rested one of the bows of Mirkwood, left to her by her father. Its dark, reddish wood curved and rested heavily in her hand, and the nearly invisible strand of resin stretched between two wooden points sprang readily back when she touched it. Nestled beside the bow was a silken quiver, supplied with arrows of the same wood and trimmed with white-gold feathers. Each arrow ended in a sleek, subtly fatal point. 

"The weapon of my people," she said in wonder, strapping the quiver to her back and sliding her hand along the bow before drawing an arrow from its companions and notching it in the center.

Slowly she pulled back, raising the bow to eye level and aiming at the wooden door at the opposite end of the bridge. Cerise wasn't sure what she was doing; she'd never even held a bow and arrow before, much less learned to shoot. She'd probably end up hurting herself. But her hands seemed to know the patterns of archery, and they released the arrow.

It fired from her fingers, racing the wind towards its mark and hitting it perfectly with a resounding _thwack_.

_What?_

Cerise examined the quiet craft in her hands, withdrew the arrow from the door, shocked at how deeply it was buried. _I did that?_

Pleased if very surprised, she strapped the bow also to her back and replaced the arrow in its quiver before swinging her leg over Naharendil's golden back. "_Lhûn_," she whispered to him, and untied his rope. He galloped obligingly down the stairs at the bridge's end, glad to be free of his imprisonment, and Cerise pressed herself low against him. Her heart was pounding loudly against her ribcage as they set off west of the city. She wondered if Arwen was watching.

~*~

A/N: I sort of surprised myself with the speed with which I wrote this chapter. Inspiration, I guess! I already have the next chapter outlined and stuff, but I still love ideas and suggestions and criticism. Please keep reading, I swear you'll like the next parts!

See you soon!

~*~ goldenberry


	4. Part IV: Land of the Rising Sun

Part IV: Land of the Rising Sun

For ten days and nights without stopping for rest or food Ceriselen Starflame rode, the wintry valley of Imladris fading before her eyes to the rolling green hills of hobbit-country and then the graying woodland beyond it. Beleriand was near; she could taste the salt in the air, and see brief glimpses of the blue ocean beyond the forest. This gave her speed, and she urged Naharendil ever faster. The elven-horse never seemed to tire; his eyes were bright with anticipation of what lured his rider so, and his hooves pounded the forest floor in rhythm with Cerise's beating heart.

"The Havens," Cerise whispered to herself as they crested a hill looking over the surrounding land. Before them stretched a thin, white beach, overhung by rocky outcroppings of mossy stone. Atop the longest cliff stood a white tower, reaching into the misty clouds that roiled over the azure sea beyond. 

Letting Naharendil trot down the hill, Cerise was suddenly stopped by the appearance of a tall, white gate. At its doors were three horsemen astride grey stallions, each one robed in blue and carrying imposing, white bows carved of birch. The center one, his angular face composed of strikingly tan skin framed by dark hair, accosted her, turning his horse sideways to block her entrance. "What is your business here, aier?"

Cerise colored angrily at the title: _little one_. "I am Lady Ceriselen Starflame, daughter of Lord Erasan of Mirkwood, and I have the protection of Elrond of Imladris. I wish to enter."

"For what purpose?" the arrogant elf asked slowly, as though speaking to a young child.

"What is the name of he who interrogates those who merely wish to enter the Havens?" Cerise countered.

The elf's piercing grey eyes flashed. "I am Mithfalas, son of Cirdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Havens, and travelers do not come idly to the land of Lhûn. Tell me your cause, and you shall enter."

Cerise sighed in defeat. "I wish to look into the _palantir._"

Mithfalas blinked, then laughed, turning to his fellow guards, who joined him. "That is an uncommon request. Most do not know that we possess one of the Seeing Stones."

"May I enter, now that you know my purpose?" Naharendil shifted restlessly beneath her.

"You will not be allowed to look into the _palantir_, aier, but you look tired and hungry, as does your steed." Mithfalas regarded her, a smirk lighting his serious features. "My father will give you shelter for a night." He turned back to the gate and signaled to the guards; its doors swung open, and Cerise galloped past, shooting Mithfalas a scathing glare as she set off for the tower.

~*~

The tower was dimly lit inside; candles here and there gave it a sort of ethereal glow, while the twilight streaming through the windows merely shadowed the ground floor. Cerise slid from Naharendil's back, trying to be demure with her skirt, and relinquished him to the waiting attendant. Mithfalas held out an arm sarcastically, and she scowled at him again. _What an insufferable pig_, she thought furiously as they mounted the spiraling stairs to the receiving hall.

Cirdan the Shipwright was an imposing man; his long, gray hair and beard did little to dissuade the sheer power emanating from his gleaming, dark eyes, and even sitting one could tell he was very tall. Behind him stood several guards robed similarly to the guards at the gate; Cirdan smiled benevolently at his son as Mithfalas entered behind her.

Cerise was suddenly doubtful of the importance of her mission. Really, how urgent was it for a maiden to see her love while he was away? Surely Cirdan would dismiss her cause. 

Before she could apologize and run from the room, however, Cirdan spoke, a kindly smile lifting his mustache. "My son tells me, Lady Ceriselen, that you wish to look into the _palantir_. Such a dangerous ambition for so small a maiden! What is it you wish to see?"

Cerise glanced around nervously. Did she have to tell him before a roomful of judgmental elves? 

Seeing her uncertainty, Cirdan turned and whispered to his guards, who bowed respectfully before vanishing from the hall. Mithfalas, however, stayed, an infuriating smirk on his face and laughter in his eyes.

"Prince- prince Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood, my lord," Cerise stuttered, her cheeks flaming at Mithfalas' raised eyebrows. "I fear for his safety."

Cirdan considered her, but without his son's mocking expression. "Legolas Greenleaf," he repeated finally, his grey eyebrows knitting in concentration. "Is he not one of the Nine Walkers?"

"Y- yes, my lord," Cerise affirmed. "That is why I fear he is injured, or even dead. Please-" she stepped closer, even kneeling before the Lord of the Havens. "-I must know."

Cirdan closed his eyes in defeat, and without their flashing defiance he suddenly looked very, very old. "Mithfalas," he said, without turning to face his son. "Escort this maiden to the Hall of the _palantir_. Stay with her, and cover it immediately if He turns his gaze upon the Havens, do you understand?"

Mithfalas shot Cerise a look of impressed reverence as he nodded to his father. "This way," he muttered to her.

~*~

The stairs were long and many, and after close to an hour of walking, Mithfalas finally turned through an archway on a landing. "Here we are," he said quietly, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.

The room had no windows, and was very badly lit; a few torches were blazing merrily by the door, but that seemed to be the extent of it. Cerise squinted to make out the white marble pedestal in the center of the room, atop of which a simple, dark-dyed cloth was draped. Mithfalas carefully, slowly repealed it from the pedestal, his eyes closed, and then stepped away.

A glowing, ivory sphere sat on the cold stone; it did not roll, even on the flat surface, but simply _was_. Cerise inhaled, and even that was audible in the total quiet of the hall. She had never seen one of the _palantiri_, and suddenly understood why they ensnared the minds of elves and men alike so quickly and completely. It seemed to whisper to her; she heard fragments of her own life, Arwen's urgent pleading, Legolas' soft whispers, Nimuriel's harsh laughing. She even caught the deep, comforting voice of her father, one she only vaguely remembered. When Cerise was standing over it, green eyes wide and mesmerized by the swirling spectrum of color within the globe, images began to sharpen in its depths, snatches of figures and scenes and sounds of distant times and places.

Cerise gasped happily as Legolas' face came into focus, his mouth set in concentration and hair blown backward by wind. He was paddling, which confused her for a moment, but then the picture widened and Cerise saw the Argonath. They stood tall and implacable, mile-high statues of the greatest of men, and the Elven boats that must contain the Fellowship slowed as they approached.

"So he is safe," she breathed, pressing her forehead to the cold glass of the _palantir_ in relief. "He is safe." The words tasted strange in her mouth.

The image wavered and changed, and the blue waters of the Anduin became the blue-tinted lights of Lothlorien. Amid the tangled _mallorn_ branches a blonde figure appeared, robed in pure white and with the Ring Nenya sparkling on her left hand. She was speaking to someone Cerise could not see, and her pale fingers were wrapped about the silver handle of a pitcher. Water spilled silently into the well beneath as the other person spoke.

"_What will I see?"_ the deeper voice said, wavering and suspicious, and echoing in the _palantir_'s glass confinements.

Now the Lady Galadriel smiled, and the pitcher rose as she answered him. "_Things that were, things that are,"_ she said, and the light of mystery and shrouded anticipation veiled her eyes. "_And some things that have not yet come to pass."_

Things that were.

_That's not him now, _Cerise realized. She'd sensed that Legolas was in danger. And yet the _palantir_ had shown him in full health, perhaps perhaps because that was what she had wanted to see?

"Show me Legolas as he is now," she whispered urgently. The _palantir_ darkened for a moment, contemplating her request, then spread itself green and blue beneath her gaze. Estel appeared first, sweat visible on his brow as he darted over the rocky grass at his feet. He was quickly followed by Legolas, who seemed to be alright as well. His quiver-buckle gleamed in the bright sunlight of wherever they were, and Cerise remembered undoing that buckle, her fingers numb with desire. She shuddered and stared harder at the glass, willing some other clue of where he was. A stout figure clad in dark armor, with a rust-colored beard that covered half his body, trailed behind them. _This must be the dwarf, Gimli, that the princess mentioned, _Cerise thought absently.

Things that are.

In the distance she saw the craggy mountains that denoted their whereabouts as being east of Rivendell. But surely they were not still in the Misty Mountains? She'd seen them on the River Anduin, which must mean they were south of there. 

_Rohan_, she realized as a party of horsemen approached Legolas, Estel, and Gimli. The image faded again, only to be replaced by the darkness of night over a pale, stone fortress. As the _palantir_ closed in, she saw the burning lights of war-torches below it, and some above. Curtains of rain were drawn over the battle. On the wall of the fortress stood a long, uneven row of armed men, varying in age from young boys not even grown to puberty yet to old, stooped grandfathers. Estel was visible at their head, shouting orders. Legolas stood beside him, his bow drawn, and Cerise caught his comment to Gimli: " even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood. We shall need them."

Things that have not yet come to pass.

_I could help him,_ she thought longingly, remembering her newfound skill at archery. She reached up, outlining his lovely face in the _palantir_ with a finger.

Cerise was jolted from her gazing and froze as Mithfalas came up behind her, the full length of his body touching hers as he peered into the _palantir_. "What do you see?" he murmured. Hot breath danced on her neck.

"Er," she said intelligently, stepping back from the pedestal and, unknowingly, closer to Mithfalas. Legolas' face vanished.

"Are you afraid, _aier_?" Mithfalas' tone was soft, amused.

_What is he _doing? Cerise thought confusedly, then considered his words. _Oh._

"No, I'm I'm all right," she tried to tell him, but her voice was barely a whisper now.

Mithfalas' eyes bored into the back of her head. Cerise shivered. "And your prince? Is he _all right_?" His voice was mocking, cold.

"He's _fine_," Cerise said firmly, but hoarsely, although she wasn't sure of that fact.

"Where is he?" Mithfalas continued scornfully. One of his hands grazed her waist, holding fast when it caught against her hip.

Cerise closed her eyes. "Rohan."

"So far away," he commented, his hand venturing across her abdomen. "And yet he loves you, I presume?" This, taunting, like a fisherman luring her to grab the bait.

"Y-yes," Cerise stuttered. Her voice failed her.

Mithfalas bent his head, and a curtain of brown-glossed dark hair fell over her shoulder. "Are you sure?"

She couldn't answer. Her breaths came shallow and quick, and the darkness of the room blinded her; his hand trailed up her stomach, tracing the crescendo above her ribs.

_Only a mortal concubine would be so promiscuous, _her conscience scolded, making Cerise flinch. What was she doing? She was letting him take her, and Legolas was on the dangerous ramparts of some foreign battle, in the cold rain of night. _Whore,_ the voice said scathingly, sounding strangely like Nimuriel. _Harlot._

"Do you tremble?" Mithfalas said into her collarbone, softly, laughing at her.

_Trollop._

Mithfalas' mouth vanished from her chest and reappeared at her lips, where it simply pressed, making Cerise shiver with shock.

_What would Legolas say if he could see you now? Whore, harlot, trollop. Coupling with others while he is away, kissing another elf, letting him ravish you. You don't deserve him._

_I never have_, Cerise told herself as Mithfalas' hand went further, higher.

_He doesn't deserve this! To be cheated and made a fool of by his counterpart and love. Do not do this to him._

Sighing with resolve, and feeling a wave of revulsion crash over her at what she had almost done, Cerise pushed him away, and unlocked her mouth from his, glaring at him with disgust. "I have seen what I needed," she spat, straightening her gown and recovering the _palantir_. 

Mithfalas matched her glare and made a show of wiping his hands on his trousers. "Get out, wood-elf. You don't belong here."

"Gladly," Cerise said, and flew from the room.

~*~

The first thought that ran through Legolas' head when he saw the Lady Eowyn of Rohan was that elven women were more beautiful. He instantly compared her waterfall of golden hair to Cerise's shroud of red, her leaden grey eyes to a pair of searching, sharp green ones. He had been loath to do this to Galadriel, but the absolute lack of female life on their journey led him to superimpose every dreaming detail of her face on Eowyn's. And he found that none could be more perfect, that the fact that Cerise's breasts were not as developed as hers, nor were her cheekbones as pronounced or her legs as long, did not deter him from the sweat-soaked, wildly heated visions that came upon him when their party camped at night.

But his heart ached dully with longing when he saw the wishful glances Eowyn gave Aragorn, and he felt he had a sort of connection with the mortal man when he saw the lovelorn look in his eyes. The intricate jewel that hung about Aragorn's neck seemed to weigh him down; his head was ever bent, his expression distant. 

The orc-killing and constant running was habit now; Legolas found that he could withdraw himself from the battle, and turn to other thoughts. Thoughts of home, of the shady, gold-streamed trees of Rhovanion, thoughts of his father and mother, so proud, their arms linked as they watched their son depart for Imladris. Thoughts of Cerise. 

She crept into all his actions now. Everything he did, he did with the thought of her watching, her approval. Her hands brushed his when he needed reassurance; her tearfully joyous arms wrapped around him every time he emerged, safe, from a confrontation. Legolas was beginning to worry that the dream-Cerise he had made for himself would result in disappointment when he saw the actual one again; she was too perfect, too loving and beautiful and pure to be real.

But deep down, he knew that she was exactly that way, exactly that wonderful, and he hyperventilated in breathless anticipation every time this realization struck him. Legolas had imagined their return to Rivendell a thousand times, in countless ways, each more impossibly exhilarating than the last. He was having trouble contemplating life without her to hold onto.

~*~

Cerise fumbled in her pocket for her dagger and felt its cool, hard, comforting length. Pulling it out, she located the nearest guard (standing at the door to the tower) and quietly, on slippered feet, approached him. In a sudden flash of metal, the blade was securely positioned against his throat. _"_Don't scream," she advised, removing his helm from his head and unfastening the dark blue robe of the Havens draped over his tunic. Then, blushing despite herself, "Take off your trousers, and your boots." Her long, velvet gown and brocade slippers would never do for such a quest. 

The guard quickly obeyed, ripping off the dark pants with abandon that comes only in the face of death, and handed them to her. "Good job," she told him, then withdrew the dagger from his neck and, before he could shout for help, knocked him over the head with its handle and made for the stables, armor and clothing in hand.

As she closed the wooden door to Naharendil's stall and leaned against its rough side, she breathed heavily, considering what she was about to do. The helm was weighty, even in her hands; she set it aside by the horse's front hoof and dealt with the clothes. She could not wear the tunic alone, obviously, for it was winter and she would be susceptible to weather. So, taking hold of her dress, Cerise inhaled and ripped the skirt from the bodice. Threads hung haphazardly, and the rip was uneven, slanting dramatically at one side, but it would do; she was short, and the tunic would hang low on her. 

Discarding the skirt, she pulled on the trousers, which hung off her hips and pooled at her feet, and had to be belted high on her waist with another strip of fabric from the gown. Cerise sighed and unbuckled her bow and quiver. The tunic lifted easily over the fitted, dark green velvet of her gown. The sleeves were not the fashionable bells that so many elves wore, but simple and straight, which boded well for Cerise's purpose. 

Repositioning the bow and quiver on her back, Cerise regarded her hair, and decided to simply take out the beaded thong pulling half of it back into a braid and use that to bundle it all at the back of her head. After several minutes of wrestling with its lengths, she managed to get it all beneath the helm, and withdrew her hands from it. The weight made her bend over in sudden pain, and it obscured some of her vision, as the holes in its face only revealed her eyes.

Cerise examined herself in the silvery mirror of a nearby trough of water. One could not tell she was a woman, but for her petite build, and no one would consider that anyway. She would just have to be careful not to speak. 

Her head snapped sideways as she heard footsteps in the hay. Quickly, she swung a leg over Naharendil's back, marveling at the freedom of trousers, and burst from the stall, rushing past the two guards, who were too stunned to stop her. Soon, the grey woods of Beleriand overtook her, and she galloped into the darkness. 

~*~

A/N: Ooh, I like this chapter! I thought it'd be interesting to give Legolas a little competition (he rarely gets that). Also, I've never read a fic involving the Grey Havens, and thought it'd be cool to include Cirdan. The stuff with Cerise and Mithfalas was going to go a _lot _further, but I cut it off in favor of a PG-13 rating and less guilt for our heroine. Anyway, next chapter oh, I'm going to keep it a surprise. You'll just have to read!

See you next time!

~goldenberry

(starice@hotmail.com)


	5. Part V: High Noon

Part V: High Noon

"Lord Aragorn!" the servant boy shouted breathlessly, disproportional limbs flying askew as he skidded into the room. His eyes were wild with excitement, and a glint of fear sparkled in their Rohan-brown depths.

The warrior in question turned from his low-voiced conversation with Legolas and met the boy's thrilled gaze tiredly. "Yes?" For the life of him, he couldn't remember the boy's name, though he himself had appointed him to watch duty. E E-something, what was it?

The boy stumbled over his gasped words. "Scout- a scout from the, the army! The orcs! The army of Isengard!"

Immediately Aragorn dashed for the ramparts, past the boy who followed him with a look of self-satisfaction and awe. Legolas sprinted quickly after.

And his keen elven eyes saw what the Rohirrim could not: the scout' was most certainly not an orc.

He wasn't even a human.

He was an elf.

~*~

Cerise nearly fell forward in Naharendil's saddle as the elven-horse heaved himself laboriously across the plains that stretched out before Helm's Deep. She had never dreamed it would be this far; having never ventured anywhere before except the journey between Rivendell and Mirkwood, she had been unprepared for the sheer distance between Beleriand and the Lands of Rohan.

Naharendil, of course, being an elven-horse, had not tired until earlier today, when the strain of flying so fast that the mortal eye could not detect him across six hundred miles of Minhiriath and Enedwaith had finally caught up with him. His golden hooves had slowed, and Cerise's energy had with them, making sleep, a luxury that had eluded her for twenty nights and one that even elves needed, coax her eyelids downward.

But she was here! She had made the journey, and if Cerise had had the power to look upwards, she would have seen Legolas' bright head on the barricade of white stone, like a beacon in the night of treacherous loneliness she had endured.

He could never know she was the one beneath the helm. Cerise was sure that in his misguided well-meaning, he would send her back to Rivendell, back to a thousand nights of endless solitude and perpetual waiting. But she had to be here; she had to watch over him, protect him, and she had to fight. A primitive adrenaline rushed through her veins, lifting her head, and she spurred Naharendil on. The joys of battle had ever been past her understanding, but now she knew them, knew the thrill of possible victory. Cerise knew she had to keep her identity secret.

And now that she had lifted her head and saw the contingent of Rohirrim soldiers riding out to meet her, Legolas- _Ai! Legolas!_- and Estel at their head, she realized just how hard that would be.

~*~ 

Legolas urged the Rohan-horse he had swung himself atop just moments ago faster. Now, he could see the detail of the elf's appearance, and wondered at its strangeness: a dark-green under-tunic, draped with- the banner of _Mithlond_? How could this be? None of Cirdan's folk concerned themselves with matters of the outside world! Loose, rumpled trousers hung about his legs, and boots that looked several sizes too large covered his feet. A dark helm, also stamped with the symbol of Lhûn, obscured any vision of the foreigner's head, except for the flashing, wide eyes that stared from its slot at the temples.

And even in the cloudy light of late afternoon, there was no mistaking their color.

Green.

This made Legolas stop, losing himself in the brief stampede of Rohirrim Aragorn had insisted on being accompanied by, and simply stare at the strange elf. Before Cerise he had never, in his three thousand years of life, seen an elf with green eyes. _Never_. What were the chances that, in the same two months as he had met her, he would chance upon another elf with that characteristic?

Slim.

_Very_ slim.

And so it was with great amazement and happiness that Legolas advanced upon this elf, this living reminder of his only love, reaching him at the same time as Aragorn. He noticed that as a weapon, the elf carried a blue-silken quiver of arrows and a bow carved of fine, polished wood, glimmering a deep mahogany in what little light there was. 

"Glad I am to see another of my own kind, as late come as you are, friend," Legolas began, holding out a jubilant hand to the elf.

Who promptly collapsed off the horse, which caused Legolas, in a flurry of panicked thoughts, to not only realize that the elf had been riding HIS horse, Naharendil, but was also much shorter than a normal elf and extremely emaciated for a male one (this he saw when his tunic flew up briefly in the five-foot fall to the ground). 

"There's something wrong here," he observed quickly, leaping out of the saddle to check the elf's pulse and feel for any broken bones.

"No?" Aragorn said sarcastically. "Er, Legolas?" He glanced surreptitiously at Naharendil. "Isn't this your horse?"

Legolas was about to answer back when the prone elf's eyes flew open, wide with shock, and he croaked out, "Get away from me!"

"I'm just trying to help you," Legolas murmured soothingly, testing for flexibility in the thin joint of his elbow.

"Get _off_," the elf hissed, pulling himself to his feet and dusting off his robes. "I do not need assistance."

Aragorn stepped in, curious more than ever as to this stranger's origin. "Where did you find this horse?"

"Lord Elrond lent him to me when I passed through Rivendell on my way to _help_ you," the stranger spat, his voice high-pitched with anxiety. "Which is what I intend to do, if you will cease these petty questions and give me some water."

Legolas attempted to help the elf mount Naharendil again, but he brushed him off angrily and galloped away, toward the raised gate of Helm's Deep.

~*~

Cerise felt hot tears forming behind her eyes, blurring her vision as she sped the horse that had almost destroyed her disguise toward the gate. Her so-anticipated reunion with Legolas had crashed and burned the moment she'd collapsed from Naharendil. What was wrong with her? Fatigue had never troubled her before!

_But then again, you've never left the North before, and you've certainly never ridden six hundred miles without stopping for food or drink in four days,_ she reasoned.

A shade of brown and gold appeared beside her, and Cerise turned, adopting once again her temperamental-male-elf voice. "What is it, _prince_?"

"So you know who I am," Legolas answered cheerfully as they entered the bridge.

"Of course I know who you are!" Cerise cried, turning Naharendil into the gate. "I'm riding your horse, aren't I?"

Legolas looked down at it, perfect blonde eyebrow arched. "Yes, and I'd like to know the story behind that. If you are from Mithlond, how is it you passed through Rivendell on your journey but come to us through the Enedwaith?"

Cerise sighed exasperatedly, but inside she was mesmerized by the perfect state of Legolas' appearance; she was sure she looked about as appealing as a newborn Orc, and really wished he would stop talking to her so she could go wash up or something. "I I was journeying in Rhûn when I heard of the darkness in the east, and so I made for home. Unfortunately, Lord Elrond stopped me as I came through Rivendell and asked me to ride here through Enedwaith to assist you. I protested that my horse would never make such a journey, as it had been bred by men, and Lord Elrond hastened to lend me this elven-horse." She ran a hand along Naharendil's buttery-gold neck. "He has been good to me."

Legolas looked troubled at this; he dismounted, however, dismissing it and seeming to accept her story. "Earrend!" he called, and a short boy of about twelve years hurried over. "Find some food among the stores for this archer, and take him to the caves, where he can refresh himself and have some water." Then, taking one last, confused glance at her, he turned and followed Aragorn, who had been shouting his name for the past twenty seconds.

Earrend gave her a long look as well, and he was not so tactful with his reaction as Legolas had been. "Where do_ you_ come from?"

"Just obey the elf's orders," she hissed, giving him a menacing glare.

The boy scampered off, leaving a tired Cerise to follow him as best she could. Below the fortress there were water-filled caverns, and this was where he led her; in the corner were stacked hundreds of barrels, filled with food. Earrend dug briefly in one before handing her a half-loaf of bread and some extremely suspect cheese. "Over there?" he began, pointing to a darkened alcove in which a pool of muddied water had been carved. "Drinking water." He gave a sort of snorting laugh, then walked off.

"Lovely," Cerise muttered under her breath, attempting to do something remotely like spreading with the suspect cheese on the incredibly hard bread. The water, too, was suspect, and she carefully strained it through the loosely threaded fabric of the blue tunic's sleeve before drinking it from her hand. Finally, giving up on the rock-hard food, she dipped her face into the water, which shocked her into full sensitivity to the scene around her and brought some clarity to her vision. 

And with that, she fell asleep.

Cerise didn't waken until several hours later; the light that had streamed into the caverns before was vanished now, and the disconcerting sound of shouts and many men conversing on the surface replaced it. Pulling herself upright, Cerise felt her stomach clench with hunger. The bread and cheese still lay untouched on the ground; desperate, and knowing she would need it in the night to come, she ate them quickly, finding that the smaller the piece was, the easier it was to chew. Hurrying to replace her helm and tuck her hair beneath it, she ventured out of the alcove.

Human women and children sat huddled by the walls, their eyes wide with fear and anxiety. The little ones clung to the thick robes of their mothers, who halfheartedly tried to soothe them, but found it difficult when they themselves were terrified. As Cerise took a shirt of chain-mail from the haphazard pile by the cavern entrance, her stomach tightened again, but not with hunger.

Making her way up the horse-and-soldier-crowded ramp, Cerise reached back and unhooked her bow from the strap holding her quiver. Her hands trembled as she held it; she was not confident at all in her abilities with this weapon, and wondered why she had thought she could help at all. She wished for a long, war-bloodied dagger, like those brandished by men around her. Surely those could not be too difficult to wield. But this bow

Now she had reached the ramparts, and was struck with the magnitude of the situation. For hundreds of yards on the right side of the keep, a troop of Rohirrim archers were stationed, their white-plumed helms low and bows in their hands. Behind them were several ranks of knifemen; at the keep stood the generals of the army, each one positioned in front of her as though she had entered a painting or sculpture, paying her no attention. A bearded man who must be the king, for his square-jeweled crown was perched proudly on his graying head, watched over the proceedings; he was speaking quietly to Estel, whose mouth was set in a thin, determined line. Before them, ready at the ramparts, were arrayed Gimli son of Gloin, Legolas, and another man, who was almost at Legolas' height but whose tall plume proved him to be of Rohan. Remembering her role, Cerise took a deep breath and approached Legolas from the side, clearing her throat to gain his attention.

Legolas turned to her. "Ah, our enforcements," he remarked, lips quirking in a half-smile. 

"Where should I stand?" she said quickly, making sure her voice was low.

"Here, of course!" Legolas' eyebrows raised. "The only two elven archers in the army must work together."

"Of- of course," Cerise agreed, mentally slapping herself. 

Estel, having finished conversing with the king, turned to the stationed army. "Arms at the ready!" he cried, drawing Narsil from its sheath. Cerise stared. Naught had she known of the recovery of the blade that was broken Estel suddenly strengthened in her eyes, turning from merely the consort of a friend to the formidable leader so many others must see him as. He raised the blade, shining red in the moonlight, above his head, and the Rohirrim raised theirs in salute, cheering loudly.

Then Cerise turned out from the ramparts, and saw what had widened the Rohan children's eyes and made Legolas wish for his own kind.

Advancing upon the mortal fortress was a long, silent line of darkness against the white plains of the Hornburg, glinting menacingly in places with the saffron light of orc-torches. The clouds prevented clearer sight of the army of Isengard, but the obvious _evil_ of the tens of thousands that must compose that line was enough to make Cerise wish she had never left Rivendell. 

But now, there was no escape. Helm's Deep was built into a mountain, and the orcs covered any passage to the north. She was trapped.

~*~

Legolas was worried for the safety of the stranger. His wide, vivid green eyes were dark with terror, and the slim body swathed in blue was visibly trembling. His voice had been shaky when he asked where to stand; Legolas was starting to believe more and more that this elf had never fought a single orc, much less a battle. The bow he held, while finely carved, would not kill enemies on its own. Legolas sincerely hoped that he had some hidden talent with a bow and arrow, or they would soon only have one elven archer in the mortal army.

Of course, now it started to rain. 

Torrents of water poured down upon the opposing forces, illuminating them in bright, irregular flashes of fluorescent light. Legolas quickly brought his bow up, notching an arrow in it with the fluid, fast movement that comes only from years of practice (in his case, about three thousand). The elf beside him was not so quick; trembling hands hindered his withdrawal of an arrow from the silken quiver he wore, but he seemed to know how to prepare the bow for shooting. Legolas turned his attention back to the oncoming assault, and felt his hands itching to release the arrow.

A storm of foul, poison-laced black needles flew without warning into the walls of the fortress, and the orcs, misshapen faces lit by torches, gave a shout of victory when two or three Rohirrim fell, one toppling over the side and hitting the wet ground with a sickening thud. Again the orcs attacked, sending another shower of arrows through the night, and again a few soldiers fell, but no response came from the silent army atop Helm's Deep. Confused, the denizens of Isengard held still, waiting for some answer.

"FIRE!" 

Aragorn's cry rang wildly in the now-quiet rain, and though the orcs did not understand the Common Tongue, they knew that command, and hurried to counter the volley of arrows that flew from the ramparts.

Legolas watched the elf out of the corner of his eye, watched him draw the bow back and release the arrow in unison with his. They flew together, hitting two orc-generals who had climbed one of the rocks to shout orders to their army. Each arrow hit its respective orc directly in the right eye.

"_Elbereth!"_ he breathed, turning slowly to the stranger, who was already hooking another arrow in his bow.

"Do you not trust Lord Elrond?" the elf asked as he shot the wrist of an orc who was attempting to swing a ladder against the wall.

"More so now," Legolas said, taking the other elf's hint and disabling the orcs in charge of the ladders.

The elf didn't reply, but Legolas thought he could see in his eyes a spark of happy amusement.

The orc army had been greatly diminished, but it was dawn, after all, and the wall had been breached, and those that were left had infested the fortress. Still fighting on the walls were several Rohirrim, Legolas, and, of course, the elf, though he was tired, and swayed on his feet frequently. His arrows still hit their marks, but both of them had been reduced to pulling orc-arrows out of their fallen comrades, then shooting them back at the enemy. However, a group of orcs seemed to be attempting a larger ladder now, and because Legolas was forced to use his free hands fending off orcs on the wall with his knives, the other elf was on his own.

Stabbing one orc in his black-clothed chest, Legolas brought his left leg up to kick him to the ground and out of the way, then used his two knives to slice the stomachs of two orcs- one on either side- open. At one point, an orc managed to hold his arm away long enough to let another pass, but thankfully the other elf heard his shout for help and fired an arrow into the offending orc's throat. 

Having defeated the current wave of orcs, Legolas managed a muttered "Thank you," to the stranger before dashing after Aragorn, who was riding down the bridge alongside Eomer, swords drawn and grinning with glee. And he would have made the jump, too, had he not been stopped by a rather feminine scream.

Legolas turned, expecting massacre- had the orcs delved into the caves containing the women and children?- only to be confronted by something far worse.

~*~

Cerise struggled in vain against the incredibly bad-smelling orc who had pounced on top of her from the ladder, bowling her to the ground and knocking her bow from her hands. He seemed to be one of the smarter ones, and his grotesque, paint- and blood-encrusted features twisted into an insane smile when he saw how thin she was, and how easily she would be subdued. Saying something in the orcish dialect, he reached up and ripped off her helm, laughing in surprise and sadistic delight when her hair spilled from its metal confines. Cerise cringed and rolled out from under the orc, since he'd let up his guard, and hoped no one had seen this, but she could not get away before the orc sliced a ribbon of crimson across her back. Cerise cried out, her voice high-pitched with pain- anyone would know she was a woman- and, before she knew it, the world slipped away before her eyes, bringing welcome darkness.

~*~

Legolas rushed to the fallen elf's side, not even registering the change in the stranger's appearance until he got there. After gathering the fabric of the tunic and pressing it to the wound on his back to staunch the blood, he touched an amazed hand to her face, gently brushing a stray scarlet hair back with its companions.

"_Ceriselen_," he whispered in awe, tears almost coming to his eyes as the most eclectic mix of emotions he had ever felt rushed through his veins. Ecstasy that he had finally been reunited with her, sadness that she had had to fight for that privilege, and finally, terror that she would not survive the blow from the orc were all battling for precedence. Legolas managed to lift her off the ground, slick with blood and rain; feeling her body against his brought back a flood of memories of their affair in Rivendell, and he found himself fighting through the crowds of orcs and soldiers to get to the caves behind Helm's Deep. _Everything's fine_, he told himself, not looking at the limp figure in his arms._ She's going to be all right_

She had to be all right.

~*~

__

A/N: Just so everyone knows, I took the Helm's Deep details from the book, but the appearance of it from the movie, all right? I suck at writing battle scenes, so I tried to kind of cut through that and get to the plot. Er yeah. Anyway, I'm really grateful for all the reviews I've gotten, and I hope you guys keep clicking that button! (It's blue and down there by the chapter-chooser) yeah. Thanks for your support! Keep reading!

~goldenberry~


	6. Part VI: Diurnal Solstice

Part VI: Diurnal Solstice

__

The sunfire is fading

Our tale is half complete

Yet with every passing second

The lovers long to meet.

Though once they have enjoyed 

The silence of the night

Their desire burns the stars

To new plateaus of bright.

Cerise's almost nonexistent weight and the pallor of her bloodless cheeks frightened Legolas into oblivion; he ignored the curious stares of the women and children, and rushed her past the attacking orcs into the cave-chambers behind the fortress. She was cold and limp as he laid her on the ground, sucking in breath at the line of blood mimicking her spine in its position. He could not treat this through two layers of cloth and one of chain-mail, he realized. 

Glancing surreptitiously around, Legolas lifted the damp, clammy blue and green and silver fabrics over her ribs, pulling them gently past her head before he slid them down her arms, trying to look away and finding it impossible. He had dreamed of returning to Rivendell, then, in some shadowy, candlelit chamber, doing just this. But instead of lying silent and still, Cerise would be warm with the innocent anticipation that made her irresistible; her green eyes would stare affirmatively up at him. 

Though a dark bruise was blossoming at her hip, Cerise's torso was still as he remembered it, alabaster skin with the texture of rose petals and the scent of water. Her breasts, high and firm beneath her dropped arm, had grown even in the spare months he'd been away, and it was all he could do to stop himself from reaching out to them at that moment. _Not now,_ he told himself, his breaths coming shallow and fast._ There will be a time for that later_. 

The blood was still running fresh across her back. Legolas took the green shirt with the ripped hem and soaked it in the cavern's pool, then pressed it along her back to staunch the flow of blood. For now, he simply had to hold her through the initial bleeding, and then he would fashion bandages from the tunic and treat her more adequately. The wound was not deep; it seemed as though this was simply a snatching, farewell blow from the brutish orc who'd attacked her, but the quick touch of a knife was especially painful. As Legolas ran the cloth down the sides of the wound, cleaning the blood from Cerise's skin, she winced and convulsed in pain.

Water would not suffice.

Legolas reached inside his robe for the tiny bottle of dark liquid, given him by Pippin when they reached Lothlorien. "Here," the tiny hobbit had said, handing it to him shyly as a child does to a mother. "I've a feeling you might need it more in the future than I shall, n Merry gives it to you as well. It's from his father's stores, the ones that gave em the name Brandybuck, eh?" He winked audaciously, then skipped off. Legolas was hesitant to apply this mortal liquor to the wound, but knew he had to sterilize it, and he knew he was lucky to have even this with him.

The vial's reflective, red-tinted contents were menacingly calm. Legolas tore off a piece of the tunic, then poured a few drops of the almost pure alcohol onto it; it flowered dark and gruesome on the cheery blue cloth. He pressed it quickly, straight to the incision, and bent his head as Cerise shrank away and her eyes opened, wide with agony. She did not speak, merely hid her face in the rock, as though attempting to pretend she was not there.

Legolas could not say anything to her to dim the pain, and so did not speak at all. The next few minutes passed in silence and stillness, broken only by her involuntary shuddering whenever he applied fresh liquid to her back.

The sounds of the battle outside had slowly softened, but Legolas was so enthralled with his work that he did not notice as Aragorn approached him, boots clanking noisily on the stone ground.

The Ranger drew in breath and looked politely away, and Legolas almost laughed as Aragorn spoke to him while gazing at the wall. "The battle is over," he said solemnly. "We have won."

"Congratulations," Legolas replied sincerely as he began to rip Cerise's tunic into bandage-sized strips.

Aragorn seemed to be trying to keep from smiling as he turned his gaze from the wall to Legolas, eyes darting to Cerise's bare chest and hidden face. "And what of your activities, Legolas? Who is this fair" He glanced at her ear, noting its deliberate, sloping point. Then he completed the puzzle and had his answer. 

"The elf was a woman," he said quietly, and Legolas, placing the first sodden bandage over her wound, felt her skin heat beneath his fingertips. Aragorn smirked. "And not just any woman, either, I presume?"

Legolas sighed, but before he could speak, the elf-stone continued. "You abandoned your post to care for an injured soldier? You know better than that, Legolas, I-"

"It was my fault," Cerise whispered from beneath her hair. "I should not have come, I am a simple maiden, and-"

Legolas, feeling a little indignant now, coughed loudly.

Cerise blushed, and when she spoke again her voice was even softer than before. "I am sorry, Estel."

Aragorn looked surprised. "You know me?"

"I- I know _of_ you, yes," Cerise answered. "Lady Undomiel was kind enough to give me her counsel earlier this year."

"Give her my regards, of course," Aragorn said after a moment, a faraway look in his eyes and a stray hand fingering the white-jeweled pendant at his neck.

Eomer joined them now, also blushing and turning away at the sight of Cerise's naked breasts. "Erkenbrand wishes to meet with you and my uncle," he said, his head bent in apology to Cerise. 

"I wish you well, my lady," Aragorn said in farewell to Cerise. "Until we meet again." Then he strode away without a backward glance.

Cerise waited an embarrassed moment before speaking. "Well, that wasn't humiliating at all, was it?" she said scathingly to Legolas. 

He traced a finger over the finished bandaging, testing for strength. "I am sorry."

"This isn't how it was supposed to be," she said suddenly, sounding as though she were biting back tears. "You were supposed to- to kiss me, and-"

"That can be arranged," Legolas answered, and Cerise peeked out from her curtain of hair. "But not here."

He reached beneath her, bearing her up and cradling her against his chest, then headed for the ramp.

There had to be a bed somewhere in this fortress.

~*~

Cerise reveled in the scent of Legolas. The clashing musk of blood and springtime air fairly emanated from him, and she took long, gulping breaths of it, pressed to his chest as she was. God, she'd waited so long for this. It seemed like years. But none of that mattered, because she was _here_, in his arms. It wasn't like the other times. He wasn't engaged to someone else. She wasn't posing as a man. It was just Cerise and Legolas, yin and yang, fire and water, sky and sea. Two pieces of a whole.

They turned the corner, and Legolas let out breath with relief. The king's bedchambers sprawled before them, a velvet-upholstered mound of pillows lit softly by the two torches in brackets on either wall. The door clicked closed.

Legolas laid her upon the bed, and Cerise sunk slowly into the sumptuous fabrics, feeling them silky and cool against the bare skin of her back. Before he even thought of himself, though, Legolas reached for her belt and deftly unfastened it, then swiftly did away with the trousers and the muddy boots that had weighed so heavily on her feet. She lay open before him, and the blush that had come upon her so vibrantly that night long ago was not so red now, simply a rosy pink tinge that made her all the more appealing.

"_This_ is how it was supposed to be," he whispered, staring at her as a desert nomad does at water.

He discarded his quiver on his own, removed his boots, then slowly lowered himself to Cerise's level; his eyes darkened with need as he slid a hand around her neck and pulled her close to drink the thirsty kiss that had been dripping from his lips since he departed from Rivendell. Cerise gasped into his mouth at the longing passion that stirred within her, and then in pain as he gently moved atop her.

Quickly, Legolas withdrew, eyes searching and concerned. "My- my back," Cerise breathed, hating herself for sounding like an elderly woman. 

"I'm sorry," he said, dropping his lips to her neck and cradling her beside him. "We'll have to switch positions, then, I suppose"

Cerise almost giggled. Did he mean _Oh_, she thought with a sly smile, and pushed herself up, hands against his chest and arms extended. Her hair fell in an undulating sheet of crimson-gold, obscuring his face to anyone but her.

"You're so thin," Legolas observed, running a hand over her ribs. _What did she go through to come here?_

Cerise sighed. "Don't worry, I gain weight easily."

"Just make sure you do." His eyes twinkled, then widened as her hand traced over his abdomen, swirling closer to the platinum curls that trailed up from between his thighs.

"Oh, I will," Cerise assured him bravely, then slid down. Her hair drew across his chest, golden blood on the pale skin, and Legolas closed his eyes in content satisfaction.

For the first time in three months, he was happy.

~*~

"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"

An extremely red-faced and unusually passionate elf-maiden strode from the entrance-hall of Rivendell to confront Cerise. Medeasel looked more angry than upset at her absence, and Cerise knew this was probably because they had shared chores, and her friend had been left the entire load.

"Away," she said simply, trying to keep the smirk off her face as Medeasel's eyebrows slanted in fury.

"For a month? You frightened everyone horribly, Cerise. You know that Lord Elrond feels responsible for your safety."

"I am safe, aren't I?" Cerise finished unsaddling Naharendil and knelt to fix the lace on the shoe one of the Rohirrim women had lent her.

Medeasel regarded her suspiciously for a moment before stepping closer. "Why are you hunched over?"

"N- nothing," Cerise said quickly, intent on her lacing.

"You're hurt!" Medeasel hurried toward her, wrenching her from the ground. "We're taking you to the medicinal hall."

Cerise sighed in defeat. "Can we hurry? It has been a month since I have bathed."

After a quick examination of the carefully bandaged wound on Cerise's back, the elf-doctor shook her head. "You have been well-treated," she said. "I could not have done a better job, but I will replace the bandages, as they are older than I would like." She paused, and came around the side of the stool Cerise was sitting on. "Your records say you are"

"Thirty-one," Cerise finished. "Why?"

"Yet you have not come of age," the elf-doctor mused, almost to herself. "It looks as though your time should come soon. I will alert Lord Elrond to prepare the ceremony. Lucky girl," she commented, shaking her dark head at Cerise. "I remember how I yearned to come of age, but mine came late- I was nearly thirty-five."

The belt delivered to Cerise's room the following week was a sparkling confection of spun gold intertwined with mithril, and it shimmered weightlessly as, trying it on, she fastened it about her hips with a sigh of satisfaction. _Finally_. No longer would she be Ceriselen the elf-maiden, the girl-child with no perception of the world around her. No longer would she reside in a child's quarters; she would have her own pavilion, as befits near-royalty, across the city in the shrouded realm of the elven women.

And it would be time for Elrond to consider marriage for her.

Cerise was extremely wary of this. The Lord of Rivendell did not know of her love for Legolas, nor his for her, and would most likely choose, if not one of his own sons, a royal Elf of his own city.

Not that she would have normally minded Elladan or Elrohir as a suitor. Both were tall and dark-haired, with the slender, fit physique that Legolas shared, but were told apart in that Elladan's eyes were dark as coal, flashing almost sinisterly in the moonlight, and Elrohir's were pale, pale grey-blue, almost wet with their idealistic shine. The two heirs of Rivendell had often been a topic of much giggling and whispering among the maidens. 

But for Cerise, the mere thought of loving or wedding anyone other than the Prince of Mirkwood made her shudder with revulsion. Hating the idea, she folded the belt and shoved it in a drawer petulantly.

Lord Elrond was waiting for her.

The king sat in the wood-lace throne set high in the receiving hall, where the shadows behind him threw his strikingly hollow cheekbones into illumination and made Cerise kneel in awe. 

"It is time, Lady Ceriselen," he began, assuming she knew of what he spoke.

Cerise sighed. "Yes, yes, the ceremony and all. What do you require of me, Lord?"

"No." Elrond looked sternly at her. "That is well, but I do not refer to those preparations." He cleared his throat. "It is common knowledge that my daughter, the Lady Undomiel, and Lord Estel are to be wed. The date has been set for Midsummer, if the trouble in the South can be settled by then."

"I know this," Cerise said after a moment, recognizing that he wanted her affirmation.

"My daughter wishes you to be included in her entourage of elven-women at the marriage ceremony," he said finally, with a sort of reluctant sadness that tore faintly at Cerise's heart. 

"Of course, my lord. I will be happy to."

The next month passed in a whirlwind of busy planning and preparing for the two coinciding events: the confirmation of the maturity of Lady Ceriselen, and of course, the wedding of the Lady Undomiel. Though war raged in the south, there was barely any concept of that here, where bough upon bough of white flowers filled the halls, and the Seamery was ever occupied by Arwen and her entourage, being fitted for their marvelous dresses. Cerise wondered at the exquisite detail of her pale, violet gown, hung with glittering yet subtle gems at the waist, and looked around: Arwen was surrounded by elven seamstresses, pinning and stitching and hemming at her feet, and was clad in a white, flowing garment cut straight and low and tight at the bodice that flared at the hips into a confection of ivory organza embroidered with silver. Her various other elven women, all at least a thousand years Cerise's senior, were being fitted for their violet handmaiden's gowns as well. None of them needed theirs hemmed a foot, she noticed bitterly.

A tall Elf strode through the doorway to the right, and Arwen did not even need to turn to know it was her younger brother. "What is it, Elrohir? Do you now wish to be one of my handmaidens as well?"

"If that entails spending time around such lovely maidens as these, then of course," Elrond's son said smoothly, and shot a long glance at a blonde whose dress had been finished. She caught his gaze in the mirror and blushed.

Arwen glared. "What _is_ it?"

"Ada wishes me to speak with one of your handmaidens." Elrohir leaned closer and stage-whispered, "I can't remember which."

Arwen rolled her eyes quickly. "Ceriselen?"

"Yes?" 

"My father wishes this _oaf_ to have a private audience with you. Will you grant it?"

Cerise looked nervously from the imposing Princess of Imladris to the dashing, dark-haired Prince. "Of course."

__

A/N: I know it's not as long as my chapters usually are. Bear with me! I wanted to update soon, so I didn't spend as much time on it. I hope it's keeping you interested! Please tell me your concerns, ask your questions, and give your advice freely in a review or email. I love y'all and your reviews! Please keep reading!

~*goldenberry*~


End file.
